


Hunting Grounds

by illunaria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illunaria/pseuds/illunaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione had convinced Harry to go to Godric’s Hallow in search for the sword of Gryffindor, neither had anticipated an ambush from Nagini, and Hermione had never expected to be captured by the Dark Lord himself. Once he discovers the Horcrux around her neck, Hermione knew she had to be staring death in the face – but instead, she suffers a fate worse than death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting Grounds

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of chapter one consists of portions of chapter sixteen and seventeen of The Deathly Hallows written in Hermione’s perspective rather than Harry’s. So if you’re having an extreme case of déjà vu, don’t flip. This merely serves as a flowing transition.

“Harry, what if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?”

The words escaped Hermione’s mouth before she could stop herself. It was a stretch, but also their only lead. Both she, Harry, and Ron had been on the run since the Ministry of Magic had fallen to the clutches Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. On their search for said Dark Lord’s Horcruxes, with one Horcrux-locket among them that made them inhumanly ornery, Ron had snapped and left the group in a fit of unrighteous anger. The loss had hurt. It probably hurt her more than it did Harry, because she had thought that- She shook her head. Time to get back on topic. Hermione watched as Harry processed the question and the possibilities that it entailed.

Hermione trained her eyes upward in thought, staring at the top of the tent. Dumbledore had already left a great deal to chance, so it would be entirely possible he would have entrusted the sword to Bathilda Bagshot. She glanced at Harry and smiled, knowing he would love to visit Godric’s Hollow even if it turned out to be a false lead.

“Yes, he might have done!” Harry said hopefully. “So are we going to Godric’s Hollow?”

She nodded seriously in response and sat up. Her moods had already lifted at this small hope. “Yes, but we’ll have to think it through carefully, Harry. We’ll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we’ll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we’d better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises the better. . .”

A full week later, they set their plans in order. The two had managed to snag hairs off a couple of innocent Muggles who had been Christmas shopping, and now it was time to depart to Godric’s Hollow. They Apparated to the village in the darkness of night under the disguises of a balding, middle-aged man and his mousy-looking wife. With all their valuables in Hermione’s beaded bag apart from the locket, she insisted on having Harry hand it over for her to wear. She figured it wouldn’t do him any good to have it reflect badly upon his rather cheerful mood.

Once Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak over them, the two got a good look at the sight ahead. Standing hand in hand in the middle of a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, they surveyed cozy cottages lining the narrow road, their windows twinkling with Christmas lights. Ahead of them, a warm glow indicated the heart of the village.

Hermione heard Harry let out a wistful sigh as he took a step ahead, accompanied with a crunching sound. With a surge of panic, she looked down at their feet. “All this snow!” she whispered urgently. “Why didn’t’ we think of snow? After all our precautions, we’ll leave prints! We’ll just have to get rid of them – you go in front, I’ll do it – ”

“Let’s take off the Cloak,” suggested Harry, interrupting her panicked response. She looked at him incredulously before he continued, “Oh, come on, we don’t look like us and there’s no one around.”

So Harry tucked away the Cloak in his jacket as they continued on, but she couldn’t help sending a nervous look backwards at their fresh tracks. The icy air stung at their faces as the trudged ahead. Soon they entered the town square where laughter and carols erupted from a nearby pub. A soft fluttering filled Hermione’s chest.

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” she said.

“Is it?”

She stared at the church and what lay beyond it at the other side of the square. “I’m sure it is. They… they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it,” she murmured sadly. With a heavy heart, she took his hand and pulled him forward towards it. That is, until she stopped dead in her tracks. The war memorial that was situated in front of the graveyard transformed before their eyes. Instead of a slab of stone covered in names, it was now a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

“C’mon,” Harry said as he pulled her past it, apparently having his fill. As they moved through the graveyard, they made insightful discoveries. Harry had discovered a member of the Abbott family (no doubt related to the Hufflepuff Hannah), but even more shocking was that there were members of the Dumbledore family buried here as well. They had, at one time, lived here. A part had also died here. But this discovery sparked more determination to find the sword. Surely Dumbledore entrusted it to Bathilda. Only a few minutes later had Hermione found a gravestone with the same mark that was in the book Dumbledore had entrusted to her.

Once they had found the Potters’ graves, Hermione took Harry’s hand tightly. With a simple spell, she made a circle in the air with her wand, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on their grave. As soon as Harry stood up, he put his arm around his shoulders and she put hers around his waist, and they walked through the snow until Hermione came to an abrupt stop. “Harry, stop,” she whispered, her eyes moving towards the bushes.

“What’s wrong?” he said out of confusion.

“There’s someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. There, over by the bushes.” They stood still, as if afraid if they moved the slightest inch that they would be struck dead with hundreds of killing curses hurtling their way. Hermione’s eyes roved over the black boundary of the graveyard.

“Are you sure?” Harry whispered back.

“I saw something move, I could have sworn I did…” She was now itching to get her wand – anything to use as defense. Hermione broke away from him.

“We look like Muggles,” Harry pointed out.

“Muggles who’ve just been laying flowers on your parents’ grave! Harry, I’m sure there’s someone over there!” A rustle sounded in the bushes where she had pointed out before.

After a few seconds, Harry said, “It’s a cat or a bird. If it was a Death Eater we’d be dead by now. But let’s get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back on.” He led her out of the graveyard, both glancing back repeatedly as they made their way out of the graveyard. Harry covered them with the Invisibility Cloak again before they continued down the road.

As cozy as the pub looked, Hermione gestured toward a dark street leading out of the village the opposite way they had entered. “Let’s go this way,” she murmured and tugged him along. Now they were approaching the country, less and less cottages ahead of them now. Her eyes roamed hungrily over the outlines of Christmas trees in the windows, remembering the holidays with her family and friends when they weren’t on the run for their lives. Now the locket seemed to weigh like a brick upon her chest. She shivered and glanced over her shoulder. “How are we going to find Bathilda’s house? Harry? What do you think, Harry?”

She tugged at his arm, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes were ahead before he started to walk more briskly. Hermione almost slipped on the icy road trying to keep up with him.

“Harry –”

“Look… Look at it, Hermione…”

“I don’t… oh!”

Now she understood the reason he quickened his pace. The Fidelius Charm must have died with Lily and James Potter, for ahead of them stood a cottage, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, and rubble was strewn about – most likely from the right side of the top floor that had been blown apart. She and Harry stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flanked it.

“I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispered Hermione.

“Maybe you can’t rebuild it?” Harry replied. “Maybe it’s like the injuries from Dark Magic and you can’t repair the damage?” Hermione watched as he slipped his hand from beneath the cloak and place it on the snowy and thickly-rusted gate.

“You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it might – oh, Harry, look!”

His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the ground in front of them, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it said:

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family._

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.

_Good luck, Harry, wherever you are._

_If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you!_

_Long live Harry Potter._           

Hermione could feel tears stinging her eyes, made even worse from the biting cold. With a sniff, she said through her teeth, “They shouldn’t have written on the sign!”

But Harry turned and beamed at her. “It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. I…”

He trailed off, and Hermione knew why. A lone figure, heavily garbed in muffled clothing, hobbled towards them, silhouetted by bright lights in the distant square. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling gate all gave the impression of extreme age. She very well could have been a Muggle, but now as she stopped in her wobbled steps next to them, her lazy gaze on the house, Hermione knew better.

She beckoned to the two, despite the fact that they were hidden underneath the Cloak.

“How does she know?” she said under her breath to Harry, who merely shook his head as the elderly woman beckoned again, this time more vigorously. Hermione narrowed her eyes at her, weighing the options. True, it wouldn’t be wise to blindly follow this odd person even if the circumstances were normal and they weren’t in the midst of a psychotic wizard’s reign. However, since she hadn’t pulled a wand on them or hadn’t alerted the Death Eaters, the chances of her having been a friend of Dumbledore’s was high. In fact, she may even be-

“Are you Bathilda?” Harry spoke, causing Hermione to gasp and jump.

The figure nodded and beckoned once more. Hermione and Harry looked at each other, Harry raised his eyebrows and Hermione gave a nervous nod in response. If this really was Bathilda Bagshot, they were in luck. With one hand in Harry’s and the other close to her pocket, they stepped towards the woman, and at once, she turned and hobbled back down the street with the two in tow. After leading them past several houses, she turned at a gate and led them to the door of a house that was almost as overgrown with ivy as the late Potters’ house. She fumbled with the key for a moment before opening it and letting them step over the threshold.

Hermione resisted the urge to cover her nose as the sidled past her and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. She smelled bad, or perhaps it was her house. The odor of old age, dust, unwashed clothes, and even stale food intensified when Bathilda closed the door behind them and took off her moth-eaten shawl, and now Hermione noticed how little she was – hunched with old age. She wrinkled her nose and looked at Harry expectedly.

“Bathilda?” he repeated.

She nodded again. Hermione yelped suddenly as the locket against her chest burned in alarm. After giving a reassuring smile to Harry’s alarmed expression, she wondered if the Horcrux could feel the presence of the sword nearby, if it could feel its impending destruction.

Bathilda shuffled past them and vanished into what seemed to be a sitting room, pushing Hermione aside as if she didn’t see her. With a frown, Hermione breathed, “Harry, I’m not sure about this.”

“Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower her if we had to,” said Harry. “Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn’t all there. Muriel called her ‘gaga.’ ”

A loud hiss sounded from the sitting room. Hermione jumped and clutched onto Harry’s arm, her other hand now clutching her wand tightly.

“It’s okay,” he said softly before leading the way into the room.

Bathilda was tottering around the place lighting candles here and there, but no matter how many she struggled to light, it was still very dark and nothing could help how dirty it was. Hermione was tempted to use a Scouring Charm, but as thick dust crunched beneath their feet, she figured it would take hours to clean. Underneath the dank and mildewed smell, something worse lingered, like rotten meat. Hermione held her breath.

As Harry helped Bathilda light various candle stubs that stood on saucers around the room, Hermione crouched in front of the fireplace and lit it with the tip of her wand. She eyed the nearby bookshelf with mild curiosity.

Harry broke the heavy silence as he stood in front of a chest of drawers covered by various photographs. “Mrs. – Miss – Bagshot? Who is this?” When no answer came, Harry advanced toward the woman in question, holding a framed picture. “Miss Bagshot? Who is this person?”

Turning away from the bookshelf, Hermione eyed Harry curiously. Bathilda’s back was to Hermione, and when she still refused to answer, Harry pressed on in a much slower voice. “Do you know who this is? This man? Do you know him? What’s he called? Who is this man?” Frustration seeped together with the desperation in his voice.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked, looking over Bathilda’s shoulder at him with wide eyes. Had he found something important? Something about the sword?

“This picture, Hermione, it’s the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!” he said to Bathilda. “Who is this?”

But she only stared at him.

“Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. – Miss – Bagshot?” asked Hermione, raising her own voice and stumbling over what exactly to call her just as Harry had only a minute prior. “Was there something you wanted to tell us?”

Bathilda ignored her, causing Hermione to flare up in a brief instance of anger. Placing her hand over the locket, feeling it tick against her chest, she willed herself to calm down. This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been ignored and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Bathilda had now shuffled closer to Harry and was now jerking her head towards the doorway.

Why she refused to speak boggled Hermione’s mind. Maybe she was a mute, but wouldn’t have Ron’s Aunt Muriel mentioned it? Besides, Rita Skeeter supposedly interviewed her.

“You want us to leave?” Harry asked, breaking Hermione out of her thoughts.

Bathilda repeated the gesture and pointed to him, then herself, and then at the ceiling – supposedly upstairs.

“Oh, right . . . Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her.”

“All right,” said Hermione, “let’s go.” But when she took a step towards them, Bathilda shook her head with surprising vigor before repeating the sequence of gestures.

“She wants me to go with her, alone.”

Hermione was taken aback, not much liking the idea of separating. “Why?”  Her voice rang out sharp and clear in the dimly-lit area, and Bathilda jerked slightly at the sound.

“Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?”

“Do you really think she knows who you are?” Of course she was skeptical. Any sane person would be skeptical in this situation. Still, Dumbledore hadn’t exactly been the sanest among wizards, so it made a small bit of sense that he would entrust the sword to this odd woman.

“Yes,” said Harry, his eyes fixed on Bathilda’s, “I think she does.”

“Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry.”

“Lead the way,” Harry told Bathilda before they disappeared through the doorway. Hermione stood, hugging herself in the midst of the candlelit squalor, looking toward the bookcase. She sighed and examined the dusty books, crouching down to get a better look. Several books lined the shelves, all various in subjects. Plucking an Ancient Runes book from the shelf that she hadn’t read herself, she bided her time, but her mind kept wandering, her eyes to the ceiling as she wondered if Bathilda was handing over the sword of Gryffindor at that very moment.

A certain book stood out in the corner of her eye. Hermione grabbed Bathilda’s own signed copy of Rita Skeeter’s _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_. She turned it over with a frown. It hadn’t been read. A poor attempt of a thank you letter still stuck to the front cover of the book.

The sound of glass shattering upstairs brought her out of her stupor. “Harry?!” she called as she ran out into the hallway to stare up the stairs. “ _Lumos_ ,” she whispered to illuminate the darkened corridor. Her feet carried her up, and she had only a glimpse of the giant snake before the Horcrux around her neck seemed to jump to life, beating against her chest wildly. With a shriek, Hermione attempted to pull the locket off, but it yanked back. The chain closed over her throat, physically tugging her back towards the stairs.

In a desperate attempt to save Harry from Nagini, Hermione cast, “ _Confringo!”_ and her spell ricocheted into the room before she felt her foot slip on the top step of the staircase. Pain seared through her arm as she tumbled down, but she couldn’t scream – not with Slytherin’s locket strangling her. After what seemed like minutes of flying through the air, she landed at the foot of the stairs, head swimming.

She heard Harry shouting from upstairs. Something about _him_ and Disapparating. Did he want her to Disapparate? After hearing a distinct _crack_ , Hermione willed herself to go – to leave this dreaded house. But she couldn’t, as if someone had just produced an Anti-Disapparation Jinx. Even if she could, she would be sure to splinch herself. The locket had started vibrating against her skin, as if purring. She moaned in pain, her left arm cradling her right arm. Of course her wandarm had to be broken. Still, with a tight grip around her wand, she dragged herself into the sitting room and laid herself on the floor next to the moldy couch.

Bits of dust fell from the ceiling at the sudden sound of footsteps, shortly followed by a scream of rage. Her eyes slowly widened in fractions at the sound. That was no Death Eater…

Splinching didn’t sound so bad now. 

Hermione’s eyes searched desperately for the Cloak of Invisibility, but Harry seemed to have taken it when he Disapparated. The Polyjuice Potion was sure to wear off at any moment, and she was sure the Dark Lord would recognize her as Harry Potter’s Muggleborn friend. As a last resort, Hermione flicked her wand over herself and cast the Disillusionment Charm, careful to keep her voice quiet. Now she should be blending in well against her surroundings like a chameleon, but she was most certain that any advanced wizard could easily see through it. Silently getting to her feet again, she inched her way out into the hallway and dared a glance up the stairs, but it was still too dark to see a thing. As quietly as she could, she padded her way down the hall and pulled the handle of the door, delight springing in her chest when she found it unlocked.

The softest of footsteps still made the wooden staircase creak loudly. With one hand clenching her wand tight enough to leave indents on her fingers – it was funny to think that this piece of vine wood was her only protection against who was just coming down the stairs – and with the other on the handle, she hastily pulled the door open and darted out into the dead of the cold night.

Now, as she felt the Polyjuice Potion wearing off, sending tingles down her skin, she attempted to Disapparate again. Yet the Anti-Disapparating Jinx must have had a wider range than what she had first thought. She had no other choice but to run and leave obvious tracks in the snow.

Hermione sprinted down the empty street, and despite the cold biting at her skin, sweat had begun to bead down her neck. She didn’t dare glance behind her. The ice under her feet threatened to falter her safety, but she managed to break into the square.

The pub was still bustling with cheers, and as welcoming as it sounded, she couldn’t risk causing a mass murder tonight. Instead, she turned into the graveyard and dived behind a large gravestone.

Her arm seared in pain, forcing tears to her eyes. But she’d felt worse before, the scar on her chest serving as an eternal reminder of the pain she had gone through two years ago. But she’d gladly face Dolohov rather than the wizard pursuing her now.

The gate creaked open.

With the gravestone shielding her back, Hermione couldn’t see him, but the crackling, suffocating magic was enough of a giveaway. The locket was thrumming joyfully.

“Come out, come out, Mudblood…”

Tears sprang to her eyes at the high voice, the reality of the situation crashing down on her. She was going to die here. Harry had gone, and if he had common sense, he wouldn’t return.

Hermione knew what she had to do. She would try to kill the wretched snake, she would try stun the wizard fifty years her senior, and she would die trying. With an air of newfound confidence, she rose and lifted her wand with her left hand, pointing it directly at snakelike being with piercing red eyes. He stood a mere five feet away, tall and imposing in his stark black cloak that clashed horribly against the snow.

“ _Duro_!” she sent the hardening spell at him in hopes that it would be easy enough to turn him to stone, but he merely deflected it with a flick of his yew wand.

“ _Everte Statum_!” The orange spell spurted from her wand, but to no avail. He stood there, an ugly smirk spreading across his chalk-white face as she threw spell after spell. Her wand movements weren’t as precise as usual, thanks to her tumble down the stairs resulting in a broken arm. With the pain fueling her anger, she conjured up offensive spells to fight off Voldemort’s defense.

“And here I thought the brightest witch of her age would prove to be a challenge,” he spoke quietly, taunting her, playing with his food.

So she decided to take a leaf out of Harry’s book. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

The infamous green light shot towards her, and her own spell stopped short as the Killing Curse broke through before meeting its target – the center of her chest.

Hermione expected to fall dead in the snow, ironic given the setting, but it was Voldemort who fell to his knees. Confusion flickered over his horrible features, but the emotion made him look more human. It was soon covered with a steely gaze upon her.

The gravestone separating them burst into dust and gravel as he got to his feet again and stalked towards her. The back of Hermione’s knees met another marker as she kept her eyes defiantly on his. His spidery hand stretched out towards her and she briefly wondered if he would resort to the Muggle way of strangling her to death. The question of why she was still alive after being hit with the deadly curse was reverberating around her head.

His hand didn’t close over her throat. Instead, it snatched the visible bit of chain on her neck and yanked out the locket. Curiously, she broke her gaze away from his burning red eyes and turned it down to the locket, now shattered and broken. She noticed Voldemort’s hand twitching.

“Where did you get this?” he hissed angrily, his eyes boring into hers. With a jolt, she felt something pressing against the Occlumency walls protecting her mind. She’d completely forgotten how skilled a Legilimens he was and she was forced to peel her eyes away from his in an attempt to shield everything. The last thing Harry needed was for Voldemort to discover what exactly they had been doing during their hiding the past few months.

Voldemort scowled and grasped her chin in his pale hand, forcing the witch to meet his cruel gaze. “Clever little witch, aren’t you? A skilled Occlumens, but you’ll find that I can break through the thickest of walls.” His voice was sibilant, his spearmint breath cool on her face. The distinct smell of new parchment paper lingered in the otherwise cool, crisp air. A shudder ran down the length of her spine at the familiarity of the scents, but she pushed the idea away to the back of her mind. It was ludicrous.

Shaking her head in the fractions that she could in the position, Hermione allowed a small smirk curled on the edge of her lips. She reveled in this small victory. The Killing Curse seemed to do the trick in destroying the object. Supposing it would only do revengeful good, she happily answered in order to divert his attention.

“From Dolores Umbridge,” Hermione answered and fingered her wand. There was no way she could miss at this sort of distance. All she had to do was use the perfect wand movement and Voldemort himself would be out cold at her feet. Reciting the spell in her mind, she twisted her wrist and opened her mouth.

Her wand flew out of her hand and into Voldemort’s.

He stared down at her in amusement, holding his wand dangerously underneath her chin. “Your Gryffindor pride seems to have bested you, Mudblood. I would simply _love_ to kill you, but first, you will tell me if Potter has anything else of mine.”

A surging heat emitted from the tip of his wand, travelling through her flesh. Vision spotting, she swayed forward as inky blackness enveloped her world. 


End file.
